So. Happy fucking New Year! Having said that in the most accurate and sincere way as I possibly can, I wish all a happy year of fucking in 2014.
OK, stop. Maybe I should backtrack for just a moment and fill in a couple blanks. As I now fire blanks, I likewise feel responsible to inform you that the blanks I speak of, or, rather, the blanks of which I speak, are not the sperm-less ejaculate of a sterilized old geezer but, instead, the empty spaces wedged between knowledge. Blanks as in the space between Rick Perry’s ears as opposed to the starter’s gun at a footrace.
Which reminds me. While I hate New Year’s resolutions, I made one for this new year of 2014. The dogs and I were lounging on the sofa in the den, lapping at glasses of champagne and nibbling from the quite varied assortments of holiday goodies given by Xmas-spirited persons to fatten us up so as to help us whittle our choices for New Year’s resolutions.
OK, again, and let’s stop this word slaughter for a moment. I just read what I wrote and find myself wondering if it is even possible for me to have been more obtuse. I’ve written 210 words and even I haven’t a clue what I’ve said. And having read those last two sentences, the writing contains five “I’s”, no “we’s”, and less clarity than a half-hour Sarah Palin speech. Maybe I should have resolved to make life less about me.
Then, again, and again for the who-knows-how-manyth-time, how can I possible write about what anyone else actually thinks when I have so much fucking trouble with the swill swirling inside my own skull, and “Yes, Virginia,” manyth is an actual word and because I say so.
Which brings me back to my point. Sitting on the woven reed footstool that serves as coffee table in the den were:
- Chocolate chip cookies with M&M’s serving chip duty.
- A 55-gallon barrel of popcorn—regular, cheddar cheese and caramel, all three segregated by cardboard dividers.
- A Mason Jar filled with holiday-colored foil-wrapped Hershey Kisses.
- A box of hand-thrown chocolates from this nifty Seattle chocolatier.
- Three personalized, pork-based doggie bones handmade by my Gram, one for each of us.
- Chocolate covered cherries.
- A container of Noosa lemon yogurt.
“Why?” you might ask, “are there so few items on the woven reed table, and why Noosa lemon yogurt?”
“Because,” I’ll respond, “we already ate the rest of the Xmas treats and I love me some Noosa yogurt.”
The Squirt was sitting in my lap, lounging between my legs with her head draped so she barely had to move to poke her tongue daintily into her champagne glass. The glass, one of three remaining from my fifth wedding—the one wherein Roshanda and I wed—is Squirt’s favorite, and Roshandra remains one of my favorite exes. Yoda sat on the old carpet that was the bedding in the crate I used to pick him up from the rescue lady who saved him from the puppy mill over to Oklahoma. The little white puppy swayed as he looked the table over between selections.
“Goat dog’s drunk, Mooner, you need to cut his beverage service.” Squirt’s words were not a touch slurred herownself.
“Yea,” I agreed, “and he always seems to puke in my slippers when he over-drinks. Hell, maybe we’ve all had enough to drink for one night.”
I ate a bite of my dog biscuit—a somewhat bone-shaped affair with my name spelled using liver treats—and drained my glass of its contents. “Gram’s treats are a bit dry this year. Maybe just one more glass.”
I poured us each some fresh bubbly, spilled some on the woven reed table, and cursed. “Goddammit-to-all-hell-and-back!” I might have yelled, but then again, I was pretty mellow.
“Maybe your resolution should be to curse less, shithead,” Squirt told me. “Expand your vocabulary and gain some small measure of that precision of communication you brag about so often.”
We watched the Abraham Lincoln movie on Showtime the other night and the Squirt has proven fond of Lincoln’s words. The other day I told her that she and the goat dog needed to start shitting on the little patch of grass I planted for that purpose rather than in the gravel that covers most of the back yard.
“Towering genius disdains the beaten path, Mooner. It seeks regions hitherto unknown.” I think she’d have held her lapels when pronouncing it to me, assuming she had lapels to tug.
“And, plainly, the central idea of secession is the essence of anarchy,” I replied in my best Presidential voice. “Please try to shit in the grass. It’s almost impossible to remove dog turds from gravel.”
Anyway, my resolution for this year is to better control my ADHD and produce writings with a smoother ebb and flow, just as I’ve done here in my first missive of the new year. And saying that has reminded me that my New Year’s wish for the entire fucking world is that we all have more, and better, sex. I was recently told that some Europeans try to have sex several times each day in an effort to be happier and healthier, and I know that laughter is the best medicine. In preparation for my 2014 full of sex, I’ve cut and dyed my pubbies into a lifelike rendition of the National Mall and I placed a hemp tattoo of Lincoln sitting in his chair at his monument on my pecker. I tried to organize the tattoo to look like old Abe was getting up from his chair when aroused, but, and alas, I lack sufficient skin to portray a diorama.
Yet another reason to end the cruel rite of circumcision. Fuck Walmart and all things Walton! And those idiot Koch brothers, about whom I loudly cheered when watching the 60-Minutes dealio on how the one brother was swindled of $25 million on fake wine. Rich little crybaby whined like a school girl.
Small victories for the little guy.